These are 4 Scary Skinwalker Stories To Make Your Skin CrawlLinktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepyStory Credits:►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/Timestamps:00:00 Intro00:00:18 Story 100:14:30 Story 200:34:22 Story 300:50:24 Story 4Music by:►'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.auhttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM_AjpJL5I4&t=0s► Myuu's channelhttp://bit.ly/1k1g4ey ►CO.AG Musichttp://bit.ly/2f9WQpeBusiness inquiries: ►[email protected]#scarystories #horrorstories #skinwalker #deepwoods 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀
Chapter 1: What are skinwalkers and why are they feared?
I should have listened when she told me not to say the name. It was my first time on Navajo land. I'd taken freelance gigs before, cultural pieces, remote travel stories, but this one was different. A buddy of mine from Arizona tipped me off about the folklore stories around the Four Corners. Said no one had really covered them properly.
That if I played it right, I could walk away with a photo essay that'd sell to National Geographic or the Atlantic. The plan was simple. Fly into Gallup, rent a Jeep, and drive north toward Window Rock. I booked a few nights at a modest little motel on the outskirts. Cheap, basic, didn't even have a real front desk, just a buzzer.
I'd already reached out to a local fixer, someone who could help translate, drive, and hopefully get me access to some elders willing to share their stories. Her name was Elsie Nez. Quiet. Traditional. Had this kind of presence where she didn't need to say much to make you listen. Wore a red velvet skirt and silver jewelry that clicked softly when she moved.
The kind of person you didn't want to disappoint. We met for the first time at a small cafe across from the tribal offices. I had a notepad out, camera in my bag, trying to seem casual. After a few polite exchanges about the land and the people, I asked the question, So, do people still talk about skinwalkers out here? Her eyes locked on mine. The clinking of her bracelet stopped.
You shouldn't say that, she said quietly. Not here. I gave a little nervous laugh. Sorry, I just meant the stories. I'm not trying to offend anyone. I just want to understand the... You said its name, she interrupted. That's not a story. That's a thing. And saying its name, it calls it closer. I tried to backpedal, apologized again, told her I meant no harm.
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Chapter 2: What warning did Elsie give about the skinwalker?
She just looked past me like something had already shifted, like it was too late. That night the motel felt wrong. Not haunted or anything, just... unsettled. The desert outside was pitch black. Not a single star. No wind. The kind of silence that feels like it's waiting for something. I couldn't sleep, so I stepped outside to get some air.
The parking lot had only two cars, mine and a beat-up truck I hadn't seen anyone drive. Just beyond the property line, the land dropped into a wash of shrubs and rock, all cast in deep shadows. I heard a dog bark in the distance, then another, then nothing, until I heard it. A high-pitched whistle, long and slow, almost like someone trying to mimic a bird call, but wrong, off.
It echoed once across the rocks, and then stopped. I waited, listening, heart-thudding, trying to convince myself it was just some kid or a drunk pulling a prank. Then came the smell, like burnt hair and metal, so strong it made my stomach clench. I rushed back into my room and locked the door, slept with the lights on. The next morning, I tried to rationalize everything.
Told myself I was overreacting. Maybe the altitude was messing with me. Maybe I was just tired. I went out to my jeep to head into town and meet Elsie again. That's when I saw the marks. Three long gouges down the driver's side door. Parallel. Clean. No rust. No dents. Just deep, raw gashes. Like something with claws had dragged its hand across it. And scattered near the tires. Ash. Not dust.
Not leaves. Ash. I asked the motel owner if there were cameras in the parking lot. He shrugged and said they hadn't worked in years. Elsie didn't say, I told you so. She didn't need to. Instead, she asked me a question that chilled me more than the claw marks ever could. When you heard it last night, did it use your voice yet? I stared at her. What? She shook her head slowly.
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Chapter 3: What strange occurrences happened during the night?
If it does, don't follow it. I told myself it was all in my head, the claw marks, the whistle, the way the desert went dead quiet. I wanted to believe it was nerves, paranoia, maybe too many late-night Reddit threads getting under my skin. But I couldn't shake the feeling. Something was wrong.
I knew it the moment I stepped out of the cafe the next afternoon and saw Elsie already waiting for me by her truck, arms crossed tight like she didn't want to be there. You're still planning to go, aren't you? She asked. I nodded. Just for sunset shots, nothing dangerous. I'll be back before dark. Her eyes narrowed. That place, the Butte, Yatahe's watch.
It's a borderland, where things cross over. You don't want to be near it when the sun goes down. I should have listened. God, I should have listened. But I didn't. I thanked her for the warning, packed my gear, and told myself I'd be quick. The drive out there felt longer than it should have been. I'd marked the location on my GPS, but the roads were barely there.
Just dusty scars across the land, no signs, no fences, no other cars. By the time I reached the trail, my phone had lost service, and the sun was already low on the horizon, painting the desert in deep orange and red. Yatahe's watch wasn't marked on any map. It wasn't even that tall, just a jagged formation rising from the flat scrubland like a broken tooth.
But standing in its shadow, I felt like a trespasser. The air was heavier, still, not even a breeze. As I climbed a nearby ridge to get a wide shot, I noticed something strange. Footprints. Not mine. Not boot prints either. Barefoot but misshapen. The toes were too long. The heel too narrow. Whatever made them walked upright, but not human.
The path forked near a row of boulders stacked in unnatural ways. Balanced, twisted, like figures mid-scream. I lifted my camera to snap a few shots and that's when I heard it again. Whistling.
same tone same eerie mimic of a bird call but this time closer i turned expecting to see someone anyone but there was only desert and then i saw it atop the butte maybe forty feet up a shape crouched against the last light of day humanoid Thin, unnaturally thin, its skin the color of bleached bone. It wasn't wearing clothes, just folds of flesh pulled tight like it had been starved for years.
Its head, it wasn't right. Deer-like at first. Long snout, antlers. But then it twitched, glitched, and the antlers twisted back into its skull. Its jaw unhinged, and it opened its mouth, and my voice came out. Help, hey, I'm up here. I dropped my camera. The creature smiled. That's the only way I can describe what it did.
Its lips didn't move, but its eyes squinted just enough to convey pure malice. Then it began crawling down the rocks, fast, jerky, silent, like a video skipping frames. I ran. I didn't look back. I just ran, down the ridge, across the flats, through the brush and stones that seemed different now, like the landscape had shifted.
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Chapter 4: How did the encounter with the skinwalker escalate?
The trail was gone. The jeep was gone. I was surrounded by unfamiliar formations, half-buried woodpoles marked with symbols I didn't recognize. I found a tree that hadn't been there before, its bark blackened like it had been struck by lightning. And at its base, I found a dead coyote split open, its organs removed and arranged in a perfect circle around its body. Something was playing with me.
leading me in circles. I could hear it moving through the brush without making a sound, clicking, like its joints weren't made for this form. It never ran. It didn't have to. It was always just out of view. At one point, I ducked behind a sandstone ledge to catch my breath. That's when I heard the mimicry again. Tyler, it whispered. My name, in my own voice, spoken just inches from my ear.
I screamed and scrambled up the rock, cutting my hands open on the stone. I don't even remember how long I ran after that. Time didn't feel real. I just know I ended up collapsing near the road, just as the horizon started to brighten. I must have made it through the night. Barely. And through the entire ordeal, I never got a single clear photo. My memory card? Corrupted. My backup? Blank.
Only thing I had left was a photo from earlier that day. A self-timer shot near the butte. But when I opened it later, I wasn't alone in the picture. In the background, blurred but unmistakable, was a shape crouched behind a rock. Watching me. I don't remember how I made it back to Elsie's place, just flashes. My boots caked in blood, my voice hoarse from screaming.
Every time I blinked, I saw that thing, wearing my face, grinning with teeth too wide and too sharp, crawling low through the desert scrub like it belonged to the ground. When I finally stumbled into her yard, the sun was barely cresting the hills.
her dogs were barking like mad foaming snarling backing away from me elsie stepped out onto the porch eyes wide you looked at it she said not a question a statement i collapsed right there in the dirt she didn't ask for details she didn't want them
by that afternoon her cousin thomas and an old medicine man named yazzie had arrived carrying bundles of sage cornmeal and something i didn't recognize black shards of obsidian wrapped in red cloth i could barely sit upright i was dehydrated shaking but i understood one thing we were running out of time they brought me inside pulled the blinds and placed me in the center of a chalky white circle surrounded by eagle feathers and ash
i didn't understand the words they chanted but i understood the urgency something was coming the air got colder thicker like breathing through wet wool whatever you do yazzie said do not look outside no matter what you hear at first there was nothing Just the low rhythm of the chanting, the crackle of burning sage.
Then the smell hit, that same burnt metal and rot stench from the other night, but stronger now, like it was seeping in through the walls. And then the scratching started, not on the door, on the roof. Heavy footsteps, something dragging itself across the shingles, slow, deliberate. A wet dragging sound followed, like raw meat on tile.
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Chapter 5: What happened to Luis during the camping trip?
I don't remember speaking, but apparently I muttered something under my breath. That's not a man. We didn't talk much that morning. Luis kept zooming in on that photo over and over again like he could force it to make sense. Corey said it was probably a trick of the light or maybe someone messing with us, but he didn't sound convinced. Not really. I told them we needed to leave.
I'm serious, I said. Something's wrong. This isn't a joke. Corey rolled his eyes. Dude, you're just freaked out because you saw a shadow. Come on. You've been telling us spooky stories since we got here. Now you're buying into them. Luis didn't say anything. He just kept staring at the screen. We moved camp anyway. Packed everything in silence.
Drove another few miles down into a shallow canyon and pitched our tents near an old dry riverbed, out of sight from the cliffs. I didn't tell them why I picked that spot. I just knew it was far from where we saw that thing. The second we got the fire going, I stepped away and gathered some ash from the pit.
I mixed it with cedar bark and a pinch of cornmeal from a pouch I'd carried in my bag since I was a kid. My grandmother used to do this when I was sick or scared, marking circles around beds, doorways, windows, a barrier, a prayer. Cory watched me from his camping chair. What the hell are you doing now? Don't break this, I said, drawing the circle carefully around the tent. I'm serious, Corey.
You don't want to invite anything in. He laughed like he always did, but it sounded forced this time. Fine. Vibe circle. Whatever. We didn't hear the whistling that night. We heard something worse. It started with a smell. Around midnight the air shifted. It was cold already, but this was something different. Like opening a freezer and getting hit in the face with spoiled meat. Rotten, wet fur.
It came in waves. Then came the noise, scratching. It was faint, barely there, but distinct, like claws against fabric. It moved around the tent slowly. I held my breath. Corey was silent too. Then it sniffed. I swear to God. It sniffed the tent wall, right next to my head. Long, heavy breaths, like it was tasting our scent. I didn't move. Neither did Corey. A moment passed, then another.
Then I heard Luis whisper from his side of the tent. ''Guys, there's someone out there. They're... they're looking at me.'' He sounded choked, afraid in a way I'd never heard before. I started to unzip the tent just a little, just enough to peek out, but something beat me to it. A shadow passed across the mesh. A shape, upright but bent.
Its hands dragged across the fabric as it moved, slow and deliberate. Its fingers were too long. I backed away and grabbed my flashlight. The second I turned it on, everything stopped. No wind, no movement, no sound. Then from the treeline, just past the fire, came a voice. Danny, boy, I felt every hair on my body stand up. It wasn't my grandfather this time, it was me.
My voice, but wrong, hollow, like someone had recorded it and played it back through broken speakers. Then it said Corey's name. Then Luis's. In every voice but our own. Luis, come see. You're not scared, are you? The voice laughed. I turned to Luis. He was pale, sweating, gripping his camera like a weapon. I saw it, he said. It was wearing my face. What? In the trees. Just standing there.
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Chapter 6: What is the significance of the Hogan?
Every item inside arranged in a neat little pile across the windshield, like it was studying us, like it knew what mattered. The driver's side window had a message scratched into the glass from the inside. We follow your voice. I dropped the keys. They wouldn't matter anyway. The battery was stone dead. We're being hunted, I said flatly. It's not just trying to scare us. It wants us lost, alone.
Corey nodded, still blank. I remembered something my grandfather told me when I was nine. That if you're being followed by something not of this world, you don't go home. You don't run straight. You don't give it a trail to follow. Instead, you head to where the old spirits sleep. That's when I remembered the Hogan.
It was built by my grandfather's grandfather, half buried in the canyon near the old shepherd paths. He used to take me there sometimes when I was a kid. It was sacred, untouched, maybe even protected. We headed there. The farther we got into the canyon, the quieter it became. No birds, no wind. Not even our footsteps made much sound anymore, like the rocks were listening.
Around noon, we started hearing them again. Our own voices. From behind the rocks. From the ridges above us. Always just far enough that we couldn't see where they were coming from. Corey. You left me, bro. Danny. It's Luis. I'm okay. I just need help. But there was no echo. No weight to the words. They floated. Hollow. Corey broke first. He turned sharply and screamed into the rocks.
Shut up, you're not him. The canyon responded in perfect mimicry. Shut up, you're not him. Same tone, same rage, same pitch, but higher, like a child mocking its parent. That's when the rock started falling. Not a landslide, just a warning. Something was above us. We reached the Hogan by late afternoon.
It was half buried into the side of a slope, its door sealed with thick planks, the red clay walls covered in faded symbols, Navajo protection glyphs, some scratched away, some still strong. I pushed the door open and nearly wept. Inside it smelled like cedar and sage, dusty but untouched. In the center there was a small circle of black ash, intact. We dropped everything and sat inside it.
I grabbed the old satchel from the altar shelf, my grandfather's pouch of blessed ash and turquoise chips, and kept it clutched tight in my hands like it was the only real thing left in the world. Outside the air turned thick, like we were being suffocated by silence. Then came the knock. Three times. Slow. Rhythmic. Like it had all the time in the world. I held my breath. Another knock.
But it came from the opposite side of the Hogan now. Then another. Above us. On the roof. Corey whimpered. It's surrounding us. No, I whispered. It is us. It's inside our heads. Then the voice came, right outside the door. Louise's voice. Dan, open up man, I'm hurt. Silence, then it came again. From behind us this time. Please, it's so dark out here, don't leave me out here.
I stood, stepped toward the door. Corey grabbed my arm. Don't. I'm not, I said, I think it knows it's losing. Outside it growled. Not like a bear, not like a coyote. Something deep and wet, like breath caught in a throat too long. The voice changed. Daniel. It wasn't Luis anymore. It was my grandfather. Open the door, son. We need to bury you. My knees buckled.
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Chapter 7: How did the story conclude with the skinwalker encounter?
Not even your own. I laughed a little. What happens if we do? She didn't smile. They'll wear your skin to find you. I left the twenty on the counter and got the hell out. We drove another hour down the back roads, passing nothing but dust, rock, and silence. Eventually, even the GPS tapped out, leaving us with the hand-sketched directions from Ray's journal.
We followed an old service road and found a dry riverbed, the kind you'd miss if you blinked. That was our turnoff. The canyon walls opened like jaws, reddish-orange stone looming on both sides. I swear the shadows in that place moved before the sun did. Marcos kept glancing behind us like he expected something to crawl out of the rocks. Trey just played music and rolled a joint.
We reached a flat clearing beside a low cliff face. No trees, no wind, no noise. That kind of dead silence you only hear in the desert when every animal knows not to make a sound. We set up camp anyway. Trey found some old petroglyphs carved into the canyon wall. He snapped pictures and joked about summoning desert demons.
Marcos was quiet, nervously checking his phone even though it had no signal. I didn't mention that the canyon wasn't on any recent maps, just Ray's journal. By sundown, the stillness had become wrong, like the world was holding its breath.
We were sitting by the fire, passing the bottle, when we heard the first whistle, sharp and short, like someone trying to get our attention from the rocks above. We all looked up at once. There was nothing there. A few minutes later, Marco swore he saw a figure watching us from the ridge. A man crouched low, but with a face that looked stretched, too long, and sharp like a snout.
We laughed it off, said he was just spooked. Then the coyotes started howling, but it didn't sound right. It wasn't in the distance like usual. It was close. Too close. One call was behind us. The reply came from the opposite direction, maybe 30 feet away. No movement, no glowing eyes, just sound, perfect mimicry. It all went quiet by midnight.
I woke up sometime later, must have been 3 in the morning, to the sound of clicking. Light, rhythmic, like fingernails tapping on rock. It circled the tent once, then again. I held my breath and listened. Trey and Marcos were out cold. Then something pressed against the fabric of the tent right next to me. I didn't move. I didn't make a sound. The imprint stayed there for five, maybe ten seconds.
Human. But too large. Fingers too long. Six of them. And then it was gone. I didn't sleep the rest of the night. When the sun finally started to rise, we unzipped the tent. And that's when we saw it. A perfect ring of dead birds surrounded our camp. Dozens of them. Sparrows, wrens, even a hawk. Each one laid out beak out, all facing the tent. Their eyes were gone. We were packing up before coffee.
I went to unlock the SUV and froze. There was a handprint on the back window, blood red, smudged, from the inside. We left the canyon as soon as the sun cleared the horizon. None of us said much. Marcos refused to look back. Trey tried to act like he wasn't rattled, but he kept shaking out his sleeves, like something might still be crawling under his skin. I drove. Fast.
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Chapter 8: What lingering effects did the experience have?
Fuel gauge was fine. But the key might as well have been a rock. Trey popped the hood, but nothing looked out of place. No signs of chewing, no leaks. It was like something had drained the car of life without touching a single wire. We didn't argue. We knew we couldn't stay.
We grabbed our packs and started walking the road back the way we came, toward the last marked road we passed the day before. The temperature was rising fast, that kind of dry heat that cooks your skin from the inside out. The wind never came back. Just the sound of our boots crunching sand and our water sloshing in half-empty bottles.
We'd been walking maybe two hours when Trey stopped dead in his tracks. There's something up there, he said. I scanned the path ahead. Nothing. Just a ridge and a bend in the road. But Marcos was already backing away, whispering. It's watching us.
we didn't see it at first just a flicker of movement near the rocks then something stepped out a man or what looked like one at a distance he was tall unnaturally tall his limbs were too long his shoulders sloped at an odd angle Like his bones didn't understand how human joints were supposed to work. He was wearing Trey's shirt. The one he was wearing right then. Same hole in the sleeve.
Same faded red. Same sweat stains. But it wasn't Trey. The thing didn't move. It just stood there, head tilted, arms hanging limp. Like it was waiting for us to say something. We didn't. We turned and ran. I don't remember how long we ran. Maybe a mile, maybe more. But the desert doesn't give you cover, and we were too exposed.
We only stopped when Trey collapsed to the ground, heaving and gasping. Marcos dropped beside him. I was about to pull out our last water bottle when I saw it. The thing hadn't followed us on foot. It was just there again, twenty feet away. closer this time, still silent, still smiling with lips that didn't look made for smiling. Trey was the first to move.
He picked up a fist-sized rock and hurled it. It missed, bouncing harmlessly off the dirt. The thing didn't flinch. Instead, it turned around and walked slowly into the canyon brush, vanishing like it had never existed. We didn't talk the rest of the hike. We didn't run, either. Just kept moving, eyes wide, jumping at every sound. The birds never returned. The wind stayed dead.
Even the sun felt colder. Then we lost Trey. It happened fast. He said he needed to step off the road to piss. We told him not to go far. He waved, cracked a joke about getting skinned by desert demons, and vanished into the scrub brush. We waited. Five minutes passed, then ten. I called for him. No answer. Marco started getting nervous. Dylan, I don't like this. We both shouted his name.
Then from the brush, we heard Trey's voice. Coming, just a second. Relieved, we waited. A moment later, Trey stepped out of the brush with a big grin on his face, but he was off. His movements were too stiff, like someone figuring out how to walk. His smile didn't quite reach his eyes. His voice sounded the same, but the way he said words felt practiced, rehearsed.
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